That poor stumbling,fumblingmumbling drunk.That trips on his feetand broken concreteand tree trunks.He didn’t mean to be a downerbut as he walkedand drownedhis sorrows and woes,he found himself undera cloud that followedwherever he wentand wherever he goes.Life was like quicksandand the things he loved
were like sandbetween his fingertipsno matter how firmly he graspedhe could never gain a firm grip.